Chapter 12
By late afternoon, the despatch rider had arrived at the Royal Armaments Research and Development Establishment, Fort Halstead.
Originally set up as one of a series of Regional Mobilisation Centres, ringing the capital as a defence against Napoleon's invading armies, 'The Fort', sitting atop the North Downs, south of London, had expanded to cover an area of nearly two square miles. The original Georgian fortifications, long since known as 'The Old Fort', had long been lost amongst an assortment of pre- and post-War laboratories, offices, workshops and miscellaneous outbuildings, not to mention weapons ranges, a considerable magazine, buried deep underground, well away from the other buildings and its own fire station with two appliances; with the sorts of hazardous and explosive materials that were likely to be tested, relying on the civil Fire Brigade was foolhardy.
From their lofty position, the staff had a commanding view over the Kent countryside and the nearest market town, Sevenoaks, four miles away. The altitude also gave the establishment the mixed blessing of its own microclimate; there had been many occasions where the staff had trudged through six-inch snowdrifts down to the main gate, only to find that the locals in town had experienced nothing more than a mild rain shower.
Of course, there were the occasions where the Establishment was bathed in brilliant sunshine whilst the rest of the area had been blanketed in thick fog. All things considered, it was quite a pleasant place to work, the mixed deciduous woodland providing a rich selection of flora, fauna and fungi including orchids and green woodpeckers. Some of the engineering apprentices had even constructed a grille to allow the local bats access to their cave in the chalk hillside, safe from interruption by errant ramblers – or curious scientists on their lunch breaks.
Hargreaves' call, just after lunch, had finally been routed, via several switchboards, to Doctor George Halliday, Superintendent of the Small Arms section, who was now waiting at the Police Lodge, next to the Main Gate, for 'something unusual.' He couldn't help but notice a sign, attached to the chain link fencing:
Police
Club
Visitors
He'd smiled at the mental image of casual brutality this conjured up. The Ministry of Defence Police who manned the gate were usually such affable chaps.
Under conditions of strictest security, the rider had signed the package into Halliday's care.
Now relieved of his potentially dangerous cargo, the rider would be able to take a much shorter route via the tunnel under the River Thames at Dartford.
Gunning his engine, he rode swiftly down the drive. The roar of the motorcycle fading into the distance, the Superintendent carefully carried the package through the main gates and into one of the many laboratories for testing and analysis.
Many hours of effort would be spent before a comprehensive report was produced, detailing every aspect of the weapon's performance. Eventually, the weapon would be passed to the Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield. There it would have a permanent home in the MoD Pattern Room, alongside examples of every weapon that had ever been used by, or sometimes against, British armed forces throughout their history.
"Hmm, lesion, right ankle, significant haematoma and…aha! Puncture wounds." Saxby pointed to the wound; the whole area was discoloured; under the effect of the adder venom, the tissues had started to break down, the blood leaking from the blood vessels had discoloured the skin.
"Adder?"
"The blood work should confirm it but I reckon so", agreed Saxby. "Come on, let's go and check the samples."
Humming cheerfully, Saxby left the room, proudly carrying the tissue samples, strode from the room. Shaking his head slowly, amazed at the total change in Saxby's mood, Meakins followed him.
Less than an hour later basic laboratory work had confirmed the diagnosis:
"Open and shut case;" Saxby sighed. "Vipera berus. "The poor sod was unlucky."
"Ok. So now we know what killed him. But who was he?" What was he?
Saxby glanced at his watch: "Tell you what, lets discuss it over a pint"
"Good idea"
Effectively stranded, by Fairfax's hurried departure, Ford was faced with the prospect of having to walk for several miles back to the RAF Station to collect his car. The late afternoon was quite pleasant and the stillness of the approaching dusk allowed him to think. Evidently, something was going on, connected to the previous day's test. Then there was the firelight in the forest…
The blaring of a horn aroused him from his reverie. A military Land Rover pulled up and Waterman leant across to open the passenger door. "The old man sent me to find you; He said he's sorry he had to leave you in the lurch but there's a flap on"
"Oh?" said Ford, gratefully taking his place on the passenger seat.
"Nothing serious," Replied Waterman. "Just World War Three." With that, Waterman let in the clutch and the Land Rover sped into the gloom
Since the battle of the forest, the Alien had lain low during the day. In a poorly lit area of country such as this, night was a far better time to travel, the darkness offering perfect cover. Exactly where he was heading, he had no idea; he just knew that it was important to get as far away from the landing site as possible
Ford climbed out of the Land Rover, waved acknowledgement to Waterman and walked across the visitors' car park to his car. The sky was a deep blue as the last of the daylight faded in the west. Arc lights blazed into life around the camp. As the engine roared into life, Ford yawned; it had been a long day. He'd be glad to reach Mrs Harris'. Pausing only to surrender his Visitor's Pass to the sentry at the gate, he steered the car onto the main road.
As he drove, Ford picked up the train of thought, interrupted by Waterman's arrival. With the information gleaned from the military, it was evident that Unidentified Flying Objects were not only real but also hostile. It was hardly a coincidence that tensions between East and West had deteriorated to the point where nuclear war was not only possible but also increasingly likely. With the major powers at each other's throats, they were unlikely to notice an external threat, particularly if, as appeared to be the case, such a threat was carrying out its plans in a clandestine manner.
There was no way a story as big as this could be swept under the carpet. It was obvious; he'd have to return to London in the morning. As he reached the centre of the village, he spotted a public telephone box. . Ford pulled up beside it, turned off the ignition and hurried over to the cubicle.